Once the Neon Lites had landed on the planet of New Scotland in their usual fashion (BUMP, CRASH, SOUND OF TEARING BUMPERS....) and the hatch had whined noisily all the way up the scale (or was that Denara?) and the bandmembers had all tumbled out into an early evening mist.... the Jackalope disappeared.

     Mollie turned to Sparki and shook a finger at her. "I don't think you are taking your responsibilities at all responsibly....,” she said reprovingly, as the Jackalope hopped wildly away into the distance.

            Sparki nodded (and a shower of glitter fell inexplicably from nowhere) "Like, way true Dudette, I must admit. You mean I have, like, gotten totally hip to the idea of playing in a band and touring the cosmos most rhythmically, but have lost sight of the way primo importance of my most stupendous, desperate and galaxy saving mission?"

            Mollie frowned. "No, I mean you have no idea what havoc a wild Jackalope can wreak on a civilized area like this one! It could cause mass hysteria, irrational behavior, heavy drinking and wild exaggerations!"

            Hamish, Craig and Sparki smiled as one. "Cool!"

            Tasha cocked her head. "I thought you said that Jackawhatsits didn't exist?"

         Mollie frowned. "I did not.... I was reading a theory out of this book - a very interesting theory. In fact it proves that Jackalopes don't exist at all."

            Craig cocked his head in a manner reminiscent of Tasha. "Then why've they got a book aboot them?"           

            Mollie opened her mouth. Then shut it again.

            Hamish peered at the book. " Reasons Jackalopes do not exist" he read, "By Nirglive Drabdab. Why..."

            Just then, the last of the contingent piled out of the space ship and collided with the Scotsman. "What the hell IS this place!" Jack groaned staggering under the knowledge that every soul on the Scotsman planet had their own whiskey distillery, but not a cappuccino machine among them.

                     Denara peered from the ramp. "I thought this was Grandmother's house?"

It was full dark and damp night when the Neon Lites (plus Jack, plus Den...oh never mind, ALL of them!) arrived in New Glasgow, capital of the planetary settlement of New Scotland. (note to Rene -"Nova Nova Scotia!") New Glasgow was a city teeming with possibilities,  blossoming with adventures, filled with musicians  (fairly saturated with alcohol...)  it was beyond a doubt the teemingest, blossomingest, MOST adventurous  place on the entire planet, and everybody knew it. (note to New Edinburgh: Nyaaaaaa!)

            The full moons rose purple in the sky, and a whistling wind (Walton tin whistle, key of D for those interested) drifted down Temple Street towards the St. McCusker pub, owned by one Grandmother Maggie MacCraig MacMorton.

            Craig never knew what hit him.

            "Seven years! Seven YEARS late he is, and waltzing in here as if the place were his own!" 

            Craig picked himself up off the floor and grinned hugely at the diminutive figure standing on the threshold. "How I've missed ye, Gran!"

          Grannie MacMorton (for indeed this was she), took a swipe at him with a soup ladle full of whiskey, and missed. The rest of the band (save Hamish who didn't seem in the least bit surprised) stared in amazement at the woman that stood before them clad in a tartan skirt, artistically multistriped stockings, a pre-millennium antique black leather jacket, and teal velvet combat boots.  She was feisty. She was funky. She was sixty-five and FABulous! Mollie felt herself going green with envy, and Tasha dragged her through the door marked "Lassies", to change her blouse and avoid a clashing color scheme. (Meanwhile, Rene hurried back to Wal-Mart to see if Ruth had bought the only pair of stripy stockings that were on sale last Tuesday. She had.)

            After delivering one last swipe of the silverware at her swiftly dodging grandson, Grannie MacMorton sat comfortably on the bar, and proceeded to tell them the story of Craig's disgrace. Craig sat just beyond her reach, drinking beer and grinning helpfully, not in the least ashamed.

            It seems that seven years ago (give or take a few to compensate for the vagaries of time travel, light years and Musician's standard time) Grannie MacMorton had arranged her own funeral, so as to be able to participate. As these Celtic wakes often tend to be, it was a "suitably riotous affair"... and Craig had never turned up.

            Leaping from the bar, Grannie MacMorton swooped down to refill their glasses and box her grandson's ears, all in one smooth movement.

            "Teach ye tae miss yer own Grannie's funeral!" she  bellowed, missing boxing him a second time by a mere fiddle bow-hairsbreadth. Craig, ears ringing, dodged lightly around tables and beer drinkers with  what seemed to be a speed born of long practice.

            "But Gran!" he protested, hiding momentarily behind Hamish, who quickly threw him back into play, "Ye weren'a DEAD!"

            Grannie cornered him between two barrels of fine porter and swatted him soundly. "None of yer excuses ye fiddlin' wee scamp!" With that she snatched a fiddle bow from over the fireplace, and took off in pursuit again.

            Jack whistled. "Most people keep a rifle hanging over the fireplace," he remarked, as the race took it's third lap around the pub. "Wouldn't that do a little more damage?"

"Weel," remarked Hamish, dodging his own swipe of the bow for being a 'bad influence on wee Craigie', "That depends who is  swinging the fiddle bow!"

            Finally wearying of the breakneck pace they were setting (and resolving to wait until Craig had once again dropped his guard) Grannie MacMorton replaced the bow over the mantel, and poured herself a pint.                       Hamish dragged Craig back to the table and headed for the bar himself, while Tasha and Mollie stared, openmouthed and silent. (There's a new experience!) Denara curled up in a corner to sulk, since she didn't have any more lines.

     Sparki was grinning like a tie-dyed hyena. (Note to authors, put that on the band name list! Tie Dyed Hyenas!) "Like TOTALLY awesome use of plaid power, radically self empowered old lady with cool boots. I am WAY impressed!"

            Grannie MacMorton raised a glass. "Back at ye Lassie".

            Jack sat gingerly at the table sipping Glenfiddich, while the girls proceeded to sip spiced rum with much less ginger. (IT IS SO A SPICE GIRLS JOKE! READ IT AGAIN!)

            Grannie reached across and ruffled Craig's hair, before delivering an absentminded smack to the back of his head. "I can beat ye later," she said affectionately, at which Jack perked up his ears.  "Right noo we have serious troubles to attend to."

            Mollie raised an eyebrow, and pulled  a small notebook from her back pocket. "What are the facts, Ma'am?"

            Craig snorted into his second pint.

         Grannie eyed him sharply, eased herself down at the table and lowered her brogue to a whisperrrrr. "Can the lassies be trusted?" 

            Craig narrowed his eyes, peered around the pub and nodded, as Sparki and Tasha leaned in closer and cracked foreheads. Jack rolled his eyes.

"As you know" Grannie  said softly, "There was a time when Old Scotland - and all of Old Earth for that matter, was run entirely by huge corporate entities, that did all they could to stamp out the independent businesses and enterprises in the goal of rrrrepressionist, rrrradical, rrrregulated, complete and corrrporate Oligarrrchy".

            Mollie blinked, "Could you repeat that?"

            "Not with this accent," Grannie replied.

         Craig nodded. "Of course all of that was long ago..." he added, "before interplanetary immigration. Around the time that Saint McCusker  parted the Firth of Forth (or was it the fifth of vodka?) drove all the snakes out of Ireland, and saved the entire MacFiddler clan by building the ark that carried them through the grreat flood...."

            Jack interrupted. "Hold it, fiddle boy, you got your histories crossed. It wasn't the Firth of whatsit, it was the Red Sea.... and that was Moses, Saint Patrick and Noah...."

            A hush fell over the entire room, as  Craig leaped to his feet and the large population of New-Scottish celebrants glared as one.

            "...Or not..." Jack finished lamely.

            Mollie collared Craig and hauled him back to his seat. "What is the DEAL with this Saint McCusker thing anyway?" she hissed, as the slow hum of conversation again filled the pub.

            Craig looked witheringly at her over the top of a pint glass of Guinness. "If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand."

            Hamish sighed loudly, and pushed Craig sideways on the bench to make room for himself and three pints. Okay, well, two and a half.

"Let's just say it's a fiddle thing", he answered, sparing Craig the trouble of a retort by forcibly clamping a piping paw over his mouth. (While meanwhile, back at the editing desk, Leisa did the same thing to Ruth)

"You see, on Old Earth, waaaaaaaaaay back at the turn of the millennium, there was this fiddler..."

            The rest of Hamish's explanation was drowned out by the slam of the pub door, as a figure strode in from the darkness, and stood in the middle of the room, swirling his cape in fine villain fashion, and sneering at the gathered throng. Grannie MacMorton sneered back and  spat on the floor.

            The newcomer, dressed to the teeth and looking more important than he should have, included every resident of the pub in a malevolent stare, and glared at Grannie MacMorton longest of all.

"I have every intention of leaving the premises, don't get into a lather," he said with a dismissive gesture that only caused Grannie to reach over the mantel for the fiddle bow. "But I will have my say before I go, and you common folk will listen. Don't think I don't know that there are people in this very room that are capable of plotting against me! I assure you, you will fail."

His wicked expression and evil chuckle lost their effect when a perfectly aerodynamic rosin-and-spit ball flew through the air and attached itself to his forehead.

            Craig looked innocently away.

            Glowering, the stranger raised his attaché case like a shield, and drew his cell phone in case he was pressed to defend himself. "There is a secret recording studio hidden somewhere in the city - outside the networking structure of my corporate domain. You know as well as I do that the "More Money Than You Ever Dreamed Of  Music Contest" is sending a sponsor to New Glasgow within the next few days. and I intend to meet him first. "

 His eyes narrowed at Craig and Grannie MacMorton, who now stood shoulder to shoulder flanked by Hamish and a large juke box filled with independent label released CD's from the late 1900's.

“One of my company bands will win that contest, make no mistake about that" he growled, his eyes locked with that of Craig's Grandmother. "And when I find the anti-corporate rebels that are running the secret studio, I will crush them in the greatest hostile takeover since the historical D. Trump, M. Mouse and B. Gates conglomerate! What do you have to say to that!"

            Grannie MacMorton raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Yer drooling."

          The stranger paused to stare at a low hung lighting fixture that looked suspiciously like a boom mic, then resumed his tirade. "The studio exists, and is hidden somewhere in the city."  he repeated ominously, "And I WILL destroy it  when it is found. The days of the independent entrepreneur are numbered!" He flung a handful of expensively printed business cards to the floor. "Anyone with information valuable to me in this takeover, feel free to use my card. I will make it WELL worth your while."  With that he swirled his cloak and disappeared, slamming the door of the pub behind him.

            The large group of New Scottish musicians in the pub picked the business cards up from the floor and proceeded to use them to light  independently manufactured cigars.

            Mollie let out a shaky and long held breath. "Who WAS that!"

Grannie MacMorton shook her head and muttered something about a  sneaky stoat of a corporate back stabber, but made sure all of her patrons had drinks full in front of them before she related the terrible tale.

            Much to the surprise of the Neon Lites, it seemed that the stranger in the trendy new suit was the enemy to any free thinking musician in New Glasgow, (most of whom were gathered in that very room) and a tyrant of the highest order. He was bent on corporatizing and homoginizing the music of the planet, and selling it to a mass audience as a manufactured product, once he had achieved a monopoly. In the process he would stamp the independent musicians completely out of existence, and level the St. McCusker pub to build a branch office.

          These were all things that Grannie  MacMorton had no intention of allowing him to do.  This heartfelt declaration raised a cheer from the gathered throng, and for a moment the  pub swelled to its very beams with purpose, brotherhood and beer.  Grannie MacMorton came from a long line of independent record producers (don't ask) and she refused to give way beneath the long-standing forces of tyranny. (Ever since that pre-millennium travesty called the Grammy awards where a certain hammered dulcimer Folk god lost to a certain red furry Muppet, but Ruth and Rene aren't bitter, OH NO!!!)

            "We can defeat the corporate villain..." Grannie cried, her face aglow with a light reminiscent of that famous Saint McCusker, John of Arc (though Jack is STILL convinced the New Scots have their histories crossed) "...if we all just work together!" 

          Grannie was unafraid. Grannie was determined. Grannie had a CD burner in the basement.  "All we have to do," she said with a raised pint of Guinness, "is write and record a song of such quality and independent style that nothing else can touch it. Then we have to out-play the corporate franchise bands, and win the contest in the name of independent entrepreneurs everywhere."  (This was a plot twist that was bound to please even Leisa, ever since she saw that movie about the bookstore with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in it.)

            Mollie raised her hand. "Corporate Franchise Bands?"

            Grannie scowled and poured another pint. "MacBand, Music to Go, Bands-R-Us.....the same corporation  owns them all."

            Jack shook his head. " And what will happen then?" he scoffed.

            Grannie smiled. "The Corporation will not win the prize money, eventually go bankrupt, and be overthrown by Trade Musicians and Buskers Local  #1066." She leaned in till her face was only inches from Jack's.

"Justice will be served...and the resultant party will be very mighty indeed."

            A cheer went up from the gathered musicians, and in no time at all, Grannie had declared the pub prepared for an "After Hours" session. Newspapers were put up in the windows to hide the light, wall panels were slid aside to reveal recording equipment, and the entire bar flipped over to reveal a state of the art soundboard, complete with engineer.

            The Neon Lites were astonished.

            "Whoa...." Sparki commented to no one in particular. "Like, I think we totally just found the secret studio!"

            As usual, Jack was skeptical. "Just who do you expect to write this brilliant song?"

            Grannie MacMorton crossed the pub to her Grandson, who stood by the door wearing a noble St. McCusker sort of expression that will translate nicely to the big screen when we someday make the movie.

            "Will ye do it, Laddie?"

            Craig paled. Craig looked visibly shaken. Craig looked around the pub and came to a historic decision.  "Give me a packet of Mexican crisps, a six pack of Guinness and an hour." he declared.

            Tasha looked confused (no surprise there!) , and started to speak.

          Craig shook his head, hefting six bottles, a foil packet and his fiddle, "Not noo Baby, I'm workin'!"

            Three days later  (with shades of the great Cappuccino disaster of an earlier chapter!) the final track was recorded,  the final pint was paid for , and Craig missed being packed up with the soundboard by inches.

As the final piece of equipment was concealed behind the panels, and the final musician had pasted his or her best innocent expression over their  smug and slightly pickled faces (A lot of Guinness can flow in three days boys and girls, a lot of Guinness!) the door opened and a friendly looking gentleman wandered into the pub.

            "I am Justin Thyme, with the 'More Money Than You Ever Dreamed Of Music Contest'...." he smiled, "Anyone know where I can get a beer?"

            Three hours later it was all over but the shouting. Actually, the only   person shouting was a corporate pirate in a trendy new suit.

         Not only had Mr. Mainstream and his pop culture zombies (note to Leisa and Rene, THERE'S a band name for you!) NOT won the 'More Money Than...." Etc. music contest, the sponsor had been so impressed with Craig and his backup band of three hundred Guinness drinkers that he had declared the contest over and the winners established. The franchise bands had never played a note.

            Furious, the man in the suit threw his attaché case on the floor in a rage, and tore what appeared to be a vinyl mask from his face.  (Hey kids, remember vinyl?) The attaché case flew open on impact, and the man in the suit gave it one good kick in Grannie's direction before storming out into the night. 

            Sparki was dumbfounded. There on the floor, between four fruity scented soaps (Craig pocketed these), a Neon Lites tour schedule  and an Irish lottery ticket, lay a tiny microchip that exactly matched the ones stolen by Snerdly. Everyone stared at the microchip (except for Mollie and Jack who bumped heads trying to pick it up) and for a moment no one said a word.

            At last the silence was broken. "Whoa..."  Sparki gasped, turning to Grannie MacMorton. "Like, who WAS that unmasked man?"

            Grannie shook her head and drew herself another pint of beer. "Never found oot his name," she spat, barely missing Denara who was asleep in the corner. "We always just called him The Moose."

            Craig leaped up so fast that he bumped his head on the fiddle of the St. McCusker statue standing near the door. "WHAT?!"

            Hamish swore, Mollie shouted, Jack shook his head. (Tasha reapplied her lipstick, Denara whined in her sleep...)

            Grannie MacMorton raised her glass of beer. "Slainte," she grinned, and drank it down without stopping.

            Sparki fainted dead away.

            The first thing Sparki saw when she opened her eyes, was the bridge of the still nameless ship. The band was huddled over her, and Jack hovered hopefully nearby. "Someone should slap her....do you want me to slap her?"

            Hamish stuffed Jack in the E-mailbox.

            "Whaa....." Sparki sat up, reeling. (No, wait, that was Craig and his fiddle.) "What happened?"

            Mollie recounted the events of the past few days, quoting faithfully from her back pocket notebook, and Sparki brightened considerably.

            "Like, this is WAY primo excellent, my most helpful and beer soaked friends! WE HAVE the chip the Moose found before we did! Now if we can just find the Snerd Dude and the rest of the chips that he stole, we will have all the pieces necessary to...."

            Her speech was cut off as the transporter began to wheeze and cough and sputter, and the entire band stared in shock at the figures that  appeared on the platform.

            "I've lost the secrets of the universe!"  Moaned Snerdly, staggering to a stop in the center of the bridge. The second figure stepped daintily from the platform and adjusted his silk neckerchief at a more aesthetic angle.

            "Don't go blaming ME sweetheart...." Bruce rolled his eyes in absolute disgust, "I TOLD you not to play cards with that Moose man and wager! You've never won at cards in your life."

            Snerdly glared at the hairdresser. "I calculated the odds! How could math have failed meeeeeee?"

            Bruce tossed his head and filed at a minutely asymmetrical cuticle.

            "He cheated."

          Snerdly whirled to face him. "You KNEW that? Why didn't you...?!!!!!!!!" 

            "Excuuuuse me?"  said  Bruce, raising his elegant chin. "I believe your exact response to my advice was 'keep out of this, pretty boy' ???"

            At that unfortunate reminder, Snerdly lunged at Bruce, who toppled into Hamish (at least Bruce was having a good day!) who stumbled into Sparki, who tripped over  Mollie, causing the rest of the inhabitants of the bridge to scatter like bowling pins into every available crevice.

            Mollie was furious, and banged a fateful hand on the main bridge console. "STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!"

            The transporter light blipped on, the telltale sound of grinding servomotors signaled the latest disaster, and the lights on the bridge went out. When they came back on, Jack and Denara were gone.

            "Bogus!" moaned Sparki, sinking down by the cappuccino machine. "Looks like we've done it again!"